


Regrets

by ChloeWinchester



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Dry Humping, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Rutting, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, Violent Alfred, post mid-season finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/pseuds/ChloeWinchester
Summary: Keep punching and drinking enough and the pain dulls, it slowly goes away. Unless the source of your pain wanders his billionaire boy self back into your life and begs to get you back.





	Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a fic depicting a romantic relationship between Alfred Pennyworth and Bruce Wayne. If this is not something you are interested in, hit the back arrow now.

Alfred’s knuckles split open as his fist collided with the mouth of his current target. Another wiry little fuck made of sinew and scab whose jagged and precious few teeth had just sliced open his hand. He was hyper, twitchy from his latest hit of whatever-the-fuck concoctions they were thinking of these days to give them an edge. They thought themselves invincible, bellowing out threats they couldn’t deliver, making mad, wild dashes of blows that often didn’t land until they themselves were put out flat in the middle of the ring.

It was wholly satisfying to make that happen, and repeatedly so, each night. In fact it may well have been the only time he didn’t feel like the remnants of some terrible fire; hollow, charred bark fighting to stay upright surrounded in ash with the barest glimpse of fire smouldering somewhere deep down where life used to be. Where his heart had been.

Pain jerked him from his thoughts, the short, chipped blade his opponent had now bloody from where it stabbed him, a big grin on his manic face. “Wake the fuck up, old man!” He squealed. 

Now wasn’t the time to dwell or yearn. He shook the thoughts from his head, recentering himself and walling up all that pain for later when he could drown it in a -or likely several- bottle. Now he needed to make this piece of junkie shit pay for that little maneuver.

“Come now, is that the best you’ve got?” He challenged, matching his grin with a wild one of his own. “Or was that just a tease, big boy?” No sooner had he dropped a wink that the man, now enraged, flailed at him, attempting to drive the knife into him again and again until he couldn’t imply such things anymore. 

He dodged him easily, bright eyes sparkling with delight, getting in a few more jabs to his narrow ribs before they separated to catch their breath.

The strangest thing about doing all of this again was how little had changed. Sure, the faces changed, the layout was different, the place newer than some of the others he’d been to but getting back into this life was the easiest thing Alfred had done. The crowd was the same, the shouts for blood and money, even the way the air smelled. Blood, liquor, cigarettes and a damp you could never place was always present, as was the lace of adrenaline that sharpened everything for the few minutes at a time he was fighting. It was as if Thomas had never plucked him from this place.

He was unrecognizable as the Wayne boy’s butler. Gone were the sharp, crisp clothes and fine fabrics he’d worn in the manor, all pomp and etiquette vanished. He raked a hand through his silver hair, his undershirt stained and dirty, hugging his body to show what all those layers didn’t; how strong he was. How strong he  _ still _ was. 

A sharp whistle of encouragement sounded over the roaring crowd, earning his attention. That was one thing that changed. She was certainly different. Lee smiled at him, though there was a touch of warning in her gaze. He was pushing himself too far again.

Only she really understood, and she’d been kind enough to not only let him fight here, but stay in one of the shit apartments above the place. He cast Lee a grin from where he stood, ramming another hard blow into the loser’s ribs. She shook her head, disappearing from the railing upstairs. That was fine. This wouldn’t take much longer. This fucker had taken the fun out of it anyway.

The addict fell with a sickening, concluding thud that Alfred punctuated with a grin. He caught his breath, wiping sweat from his face and spat blood onto the conquered idiot. Said idiot didn’t respond, as he was out cold.

The crowd above him howled and yipped in either triumph or frustration, curses flying as quickly as cheers did.

Alfred looked around, spreading his arms and agitating the deep bruises on his own rib cage. “Anyone else?!” He roared, gaining a moment of silence as the audience looked around for any soul daring to keep this fight going. None did. “Cheers, then.” He smirked, giving a mock bow and left the ring. 

He snatched a towel from a nearby table to wiped his face, jerking his winnings out of the bookie’s greedy hand and wandering toward the bar. 

Lee, however, had other ideas, and appeared from around the corner to catch his arm. “Ah, nope. You know the rules, Pennyworth. I need to look at you first.”

“Can’t get a drink first? He needs your attention more ‘n’ me,” he chuckled, looking over his shoulder at the limp crackhead being pathetically hauled off by his friends, who were in slightly better shape. 

“He’s not one of my fighters, you are. I also give a shit whether or not you’re bleeding internally so you’ll just have to suffer through my nagging and postpone your date with Mr. Jameson,” she warned, her concern genuine and utterly non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” he sighed. “But I’m gonna hafta tell Mr. Jameson you’re the one who made me late.”

“I’ll take my chances with him.” 

He followed her into her office, sitting where she herded him. The fatigue was beginning to settle in as the adrenaline faded. The heavy, sinking feeling in his eyes that spread to his limbs. He felt so...tired and lost. Like he was wandering through a dense fog on loose soil constantly threatening to drag him under. Down, down, down, until everything went black. These past few weeks had been nothing but scrambling to stay out of it, above it, to not be sucked into the abyss. It was becoming more and more difficult to do.

“Six fights in a row,” she scoffed, closing the strap of the blood pressure pump around his arm. “And that last one was, what, four rounds?” 

“Don’ keep track, do I?” He shrugged, eyes elsewhere in the room. “Just keep swinging until they stop.”

“Which is such a healthy way to live day-to-day.” Again, he shrugged. “Alfred, you’ll kill yourself at the rate you’re going. Six today, five yesterday,  _ eight _ the day before that! Are you trying to make your heart give out?” She demanded

“Nothin’ better to do, eh?” He offered, looking up at her as she took the pump off and shined a light into his eyes. 

“There’s the usual human stuff. Eat, sleep, talk to your friends,” she offered. 

“All mine are dead,” he chuckled, wincing when she pressed around on his ribs, which were thankfully not broken.

Lee was quiet for a moment, hesitating. “...Not all of them.” She met his eyes and his cheeks colored. 

“No.” 

“Alfred, just talk to him. You’re a wreck, just-” 

“Out of the question,” he said immediately, pressing fingers to his temple to try and ease his headache. “‘Sides, he… He doesn’t want to talk to me.” 

“You don’t know that,” Lee said, cleaning up his knuckles next. “It’s been, what, nearly two months? That’s a lot of time for someone his age. Don’t you remember what it was like being that young? How...irrational and impulsive and unpredictably shitty you were? Teenagers are walking, talking nightmares who make bad decisions. And that’s without all the trauma Bruce-” Alfred visibly winced, and Lee inwardly cursed herself “- _ he _ has been through.” 

Alfred took a deep, shaky breath before answering. “He doesn’t want me, Lee. You don’ draw up fucking emancipation papers impulsively, eh? You just...don’t. He wants me out of his life so I’m stayin’ out. That’s what he wanted.” 

“Okay,” Lee surrendered, taping the bandage on his hand and sitting back. “But if he did want to talk to you, would you listen?” 

“...I dunno.” He admitted, shrugging. “Can’t even imagine that happening so...why dwell on ‘what if’?” 

“I guess,” she said, standing. “I think we both need to share that bottle, huh? I’ll be right back.” She quit the room, leaving Alfred to listen to the crowd and music outside, the bass of which thrummed in time with the throb of his heartbeat. 

He let his head rest against the wall, eyes closed, just...existing. Perhaps if he let his mind drift far enough he’d disappear altogether and his life wouldn’t feel so pointless. 

Distantly he heard the door open again and he smiled but otherwise didn’t move. “Took you long enough to find Mr. Jameson. He hiding in the back again?” 

“I don’t think she looked for it.” 

He opened his eyes, his heart lodged in his throat. Slowly, he looked toward the door, the bruise on his heart turning several shades darker in a split second. “...What are you doing here?” 

Bruce swallowed, hugging himself, creeping into the room very slowly. He looked a mess, eyes bloodshot and puffy, his clothes too worn, hair dirty and undone from the gel he haphazardly put in it a day or two ago. The circles beneath the deep blue of his eyes were dark, further indication he hadn’t been sleeping, and the soft scent of alcohol could be found clinging to his shirt. Peaky, miserable and much too thin, his boy appeared to be falling apart. 

“I wanted to see you,” he said, looking at the floor. “I… Th-there’s a lot I want to say, but I-I’m not sure where to start.” 

He didn’t speak, and wouldn’t dare to. After all this might be some concussed vision and his words could dispel it. Or worse, it was real and Bruce truly was this fragile and broken without him. Outwardly he appeared cold and distant, despite how much his chest ached when Bruce’s voice began to wobble.

Silence again. Music, lights, a distant roar of the throng outside. Bruce shuffled, unable to meet his eyes, searching frantically for a starting point. The longer he was quiet, the easier it was for Alfred to pull himself away, to guard his heart and not throw it down at his feet again. 

Bruce swallowed, looking sick, still so quiet.

Finally--

“I killed Ra’s al Ghul,” he blurted. 

Alfred sat up, lips parting to speak but...what could he say? Immediately the events, behaviors and everything else Bruce had done in the past began to fall into place, just from that one simple fact. 

He wasn’t looking at him. His eyes had returned to the ground, firmly, his words gushing out as if a dam had just broken.

“I, I stabbed him with that knife and, and he turned to dust. After what he made me into, and-and what he did to you I… I shouldn’t feel bad about it, but I do. It...haunts me. But what, what I can’t shake, what’s eating me alive-- I...” He looked up, tears standing in his eyes. He began to shake. “I killed  _ you!” _

Shock kept Alfred where he was. He didn’t want to stop him from letting this poison bleed away from him and bring him the peace he’d been clawing for, but God did he want to hold him.

Bruce hiccupped. “I shoved a sword through your chest and you  _ died _ . I watched you choke on your blood. I watched the blade come out covered in gore, I...I saw the life leave your eyes and felt you start to go cold. Every time I close my eyes I can hear that, that  _ sound _ of the blade going in. I can see that gaping hole it left in you and...and how you looked at me. Like it, it was worth it to die like that and I can’t take it! I have nightmares every night where I lose you. Over, and over, and over again. I can’t...I can’t handle it, Alfred, I don’t know how!

“I know I saved you too. But Ra’s told me where it was, he told me to use it and it doesn’t make up for what I did to you! That whole time in the hospital I wanted it to be me instead. I wanted to die, to take that pain from you. It’s not fucking fair that every time I’m in trouble you end up hurt!” 

“Master Wayne--” 

“No!” He yelled, tears seeping down his broken face. “Don’t do that! Don’t make excuses for me! It doesn’t matter that I was brainwashed or whatever, I still did it! That old man made me into one of his toys and I let him. I, I was all alone on that mountain and he wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get away I tried but I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t strong enough to withstand those, those pins that made me watch Mom and Dad die and took feelings away and, and that’s my fault!” His voice was hoarse, shattered. 

“K-killing Ra’s was me trying to prove I was strong, but I’m not! All I did was break a promise I made to myself, to you... That doesn’t make me strong or any better than him, it doesn’t.” He clenched his fists, his self-loathing palpable. “It makes me a coward. It makes me weak. Jerome was right, everyone was right.” 

“So why push me away, eh?” He asked, the cold bitterness in his voice making his own stomach clench. “Why throw me out instead of coming to me for help?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “M-maybe I wanted to keep you safe. I do think you’re safer if you’re away from me. You won’t get shot or stabbed or beaten or kidnapped or thrown out of a window if you aren’t with me. You won’t get your heart broken every time something bad happens to me. Maybe I’m punishing myself and hurting myself and you wouldn’t let me so I…” 

Alfred scoffed. He winced. 

“It was easier if I hated you. Easier if you hated me. Ripped the bandaid off quicker, I...I thought. If I just, kept disappointing you, if I drank myself into oblivion, if I hurt myself like before I could escape it and...And I don’t have a better reason,” he said softly, defeated. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s piss-poor reasoning, y’know,” he said darkly, clenching his jaw to keep his own tears back. “And real fuckin’ selfish of ya. I thought I taught you better than that.” 

He winced a little, nodding pitifully. “I know,” he croaked. “But it was the only thing that made it better.” 

Silence lapsed between them, the music in the rooms beyond thumping out time. Bruce looked at the ground, Alfred watched.

“Why’d you come here?” He said, finally. 

“To do something stupid,” Bruce whispered, braving looking at him again. “I...I wanted to ask you to, to come home.” 

He said nothing, only stared. 

“I, I don’t expect you to forgive me, or even to accept but...but I can’t take it. It’s my own fault, and I did it to myself. But I...I’m here to beg you; please. Please, come home. You don’t have to see me or do anything around the house or anything like that I just...I just need you to come back home. It’s so quiet and empty and...and I miss you so much.” He swallowed a sob, trying to gauge Alfred’s expression and getting nothing. 

“I’m so sorry for what I did to you. For everything I said, for how I behaved and-- Here.” He held out some papers. Alfred took them, a quiet surprise in his face. 

The documents stating his emancipation. Only now there was a large red stamp reading “VOID” spread across every single one. “I...I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Why I’d even… God, Alfred, I’m so sorry. I know I hurt you, I know this is the worst thing I could’ve ever done to you. I know you don’t trust me and, and maybe you don’t care about me anymore but…” His wet lashes fluttered with his breath. “I love you.” 

Once again, he just stared at the boy. Bruce didn’t say those words hardly ever, and never to him since his parents’ death. He’d acknowledged it when Alfred said it and returned the sentiment with affection but...he’d never spoken them unprompted and with such...gut-wrenching sincerity. 

“I love you,” he repeated, in front of him now. He was shaking. “And when, when I say that I don’t mean as...as a father. Or as a friend, I…” He trailed off, pale and clearly afraid. Alfred slowly reached out, gently touching his arm in some effort to comfort him. 

“I--”

Bruce dropped to his knees, held Alfred’s face between his cold, trembling hands, and kissed him on the lips. 

He gave in immediately, finally wrapping his arms around him properly to hold him. His soft, delicate mouth sought kiss after kiss, his head tilting to deepen it. His fingers slid carefully through his hair, the sweaty, silvery strands familiar and comforting. The stubble under his palms, the scent of his skin sharp in his nose, his grunt of approval was all so familiar. Alfred was his home, not the empty, echoing place he’d left to find him. He should have seen and accepted that sooner. Then maybe Alfred wouldn’t be so battered, and this kiss wouldn't be tainted with the light taste of blood. 

Alfred pulled away first, petting Bruce’s curls tenderly before cupping his cheek. “You...you really hurt me, Bruce,” he whispered, wiping away a tear. 

“I know,” he sniffled, leaning into his touch. 

“It’s gonna take time before I, I can trust you again.” 

“Of course.” Another look, another breath and Bruce had captured his mouth again with the same primal hunger he had before. His breaths were tight, his hands desperate to cling to him and never let him go again. Any semblance of happiness had slipped through his fingers before-- No, no, that wasn’t right. Alfred hadn’t slipped away - he’d thrown him away. He’d shut him out and barred himself in the mansion, the tomb of his choosing, trying to pretend he was better off alone. He’d never been more self destructive in his life. 

“Bruce,” he whispered, only a breath from his mouth, his thumb ghosting over the inside of his forearm, finding one of the traces of his self-loathing. “What’s this, love?” 

They had been the soft, pink scars left by Jerome’s staple gun. They’d healed so long ago and Bruce took great pains to reopen them again, and again, and again.  

“...Nothing,”

“Bruce, how the fuck are we supposed to-- You can't bloody shut me out like this!” He growled, holding his face to make him look at him. “That's a fuckin’ rule we're gonna have starting right now. No secrets. No hiding things, no lies, nothin’ like that. You hear me?”

Bruce nodded, forcing his own walls down to find the will to be completely open and vulnerable to him. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're right,” he gulped. “I just did it. I wanted to feel something different, I guess. I don't know. I don't know, it just felt right to do to myself,” he croaked. 

“‘S there more?” He rumbled. 

“Yeah” He admitted. “I kept picking fights.” 

Alfred snickered, trying to hide his pride for his boy but he couldn't find any real guilt in it. “Other rich prats?” Bruce nodded. “Kick their teeth in?” Another nod. “Bet they deserved it.” He ducked his head to meet his eyes, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth that bloomed when Bruce returned it. 

“They did,” he assured. “Wasn't fair, though.” 

“You've been making that a habit, though, yeah?” He said pointedly. Bruce ducked his head guiltily. 

“I deserved that punch,” he mumbled. “And about ten more.”

“...Maybe,” he said, caressing the marks on his arm, kissing his temple. “But that's behind us, yeah? Got a fresh start now.” 

“I won't do something like that again,” he swore. “I really do hate hurting you.” 

He caught his mouth, stealing his breath and cutting off another bout of apologies. “Then don't do it.” Bruce nodded, cut off again by another kiss he melted into. 

He sought out Alfred’s skin, his shaking fingertips ghosting over his shoulders and his arms, rising up again to touch his neck. A little shiver worked through him and he smiled. “Sorry.” 

“Are not,” Alfred growled, biting his mouth. A little whine left Bruce as another bruising kiss found him, fingers now threading through his hair and massaging his scalp. He winced when Alfred did, finding some healing stitches. 

“Why this?” Bruce whispered.  “Why fight?” 

“I'm good at it,” he said simply. “And...well, same reason you did this, eh?” He thumbed over the scars on Bruce’s arm. “But it's fine now. I've retired.” 

Bruce’s tired eyes lit up. “You're…”

“Can't very well leave you all alone, can I?” He said softly. “What sort of butler would I be?” He grunted when Bruce threw his arms around him, kissing him passionately when he latched on. 

“Thank you.” His voice was shattered and more tears were coming. “Thank you. I love you so much, Alfred, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he promised, cradling him against him. “And we're gonna have some ground rules mow, eh? Like no drinking on school nights or outside the house. ‘N ask me first. Got it?” 

“Yes sir,” he agreed. Alfred chuckled, letting Bruce nuzzle him in his overwrought exhaustion. 

“And if we're gonna be...whatever you lot call things like this, no girls.” 

“Right.” He blushed, glancing at him. 

Alfred hugged him again, rocking with him again. ”You need sleep,” he muttered. “You look terrible, love.”

“So do you,” he said softly, lightly tracing the tattoo peeking out from Alfred’s collar. “Not-- You don't look terrible, I mean you-- You look tired, this is a good look for you honestly.” 

“You like it? I'll remember that next time I clean house.” 

Bruce was already half asleep just leaning against him, his eyes heavy, cheek against his breast. He hadn't felt so at home in weeks. Alfred watched him, petting his hair. This was Bruce, his Bruce anyway. His sweet, fierce, dramatic and overwhelmingly loving boy he'd do anything for. And he looked so peaceful too. 

“C'mere.” Injuries aside, he picked Bruce up and carried him out to the room he'd been staying in, setting him on the bed to get his layers off. “We'll stay here tonight. I can't get you up all those damn stairs anymore.” 

Bruce shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt, taking his hands. “You don't have to take care of me tonight,” he assured. “Let me worry about you for once.” 

Bruce slipped to his knees again once he got Alfred to sit on the rickety bed, easing him out of his torn jeans and scuffed boots that had to be a size too small. Borrowed, likely. 

It took a minute, but Alfred slowly relaxed. Fresh start. No secrets. He didn't need to hide how tired he was, how weary, and how dearly he'd missed just being near Bruce. He slid his fingers through his hair again, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

He absently pressed into the touch, eyes rising up to meet his haggard, broken expression. 

Bruce softened and sat up. “Shh…” His lips shook. He felt tears touch his face. “I know. I know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Alfred, I--”

Alfred pressed fingers to his lips to quiet him. He wanted to comfort him. To say...something, but he couldn't find words. Not the right ones, anyway. He was so raw, so was Bruce, and it left them both wrecked. 

He gently cupped his face in both hands, pulling him closer and kissing him deeply. Bruce melted under him, his hands on his chest while his own slid to his neck and further. 

Alfred let his hands roam Bruce’s soft, warm skin, his own rough and bandaged palms raising goosebumps as they went. The boy shivered. “If it's too much--” 

“I'll tell you,” he promised, kissing him again. He rose entirely, backing him into the bed and lying on top of him. 

“Careful, love,” he whispered, chest hitching in pain. Bruce let his fingertips ghost over the bruise he'd just agitated, expression guilty. 

“I--”

“I know. I know, come here.” 

Alfred crushed their mouths together again, twining his arms around him to feel him breathe, to know he was there and still in one piece. “Please...Bruce, please don't send me away again. I can't...I…”

“I won't,” he swore. “I won't. God, I'm so sorry I hurt you so much. I'm so sorry, Alfred.”

“Shh, shh…” He kissed him again, deeper and with more fervor. He slid his tongue past his lips, quaking beneath him.

Bruce moaned, pressing against his hips. thin fabric keeping their bodies from fully touching each other. Bruce’s heart pounded, breaths short and quick, eager. He felt like he was on fire, and every brush of Alfred’s lips and each caress from his powerful body making the blaze stifling. 

“Alfred,” he gasped, hard beneath his briefs and barely able to keep himself from rutting against Alfred’s thigh. 

“I'm here,” he swore, kissing him feverishly. “Right here. Oh god…” His open palms slid down his back, thumbs brushing over the dimples just above his waistline and finally cupping the swell of flesh just beneath. 

He held Bruce close, rocking back against him and moaning aloud. “Fuck! Fuck, Bruce, Bruce!”

“Alfred,” he sobbed. Tired as they were, battered and weary, this wet, desperate rutting they were doing seemed absolutely perfect. 

“I've got you. I'm right here, I-I've got you, love, I'm here. Sweet boy, my sweet boy…” 

Rough kisses, frantic bites and touches and vows of devotion echoed softly through the room until they were curled up in the small bed, Bruce fast asleep with his head on Alfred’s chest, his fingers curled in his undershirt. 

Sleep found Alfred easily for the first time in nearly a year, holding Bruce close. And God he'd never let go again. 


End file.
